Like Souls That Balance Joy And Pain
by Saucery
Summary: Eugene is, quite literally, tangled. WARNING: Hair bondage. There, I said it.


Notes:

For **obsessivemuch**. Based on the premise that Rapunzel never had to cut her hair.

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><p><strong>LIKE SOULS THAT BALANCE JOY AND PAIN<strong>

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><p>A man had given all other bliss,<br>And all his worldly worth for this…  
>- Alfred Tennyson.<p>

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><p>The thing is, Eugene isn't exactly fond of being tied up. He's been suspended from soon-to-crash chandeliers, lowered into terribly dank oubliettes, tortured with feathers by depraved older women that had bloody well <em>paid<em> for nothing but a simple romp, led wrists-first to a stinking, piss-soaked gallows, given sermons on good behavior by disturbingly hot-eyed clergymen that seemed to enjoy seeing him on his knees, and thrown across the backs of horses a _lot_ less coordinated than Maximus.

So. He's been tied up _plenty_. And none of it has been nice. Or - or remotely _exciting_, at least, not in the way the depraved older women had seemed to think it would be.

Depraved _younger_ women, though? Specifically, depraved younger women naturally equipped with bondage equipment and ridiculously beautiful blue eyes?

Well. Rapunzel is _dangerously_ imaginative, and manages to look both innocent and joyous as she rids Eugene of every notion of what he might - and might not - find comfortable.

Her hair is so _soft_. And so thick. And nothing like a rope at all, nothing that chafes or injures or - god, it's - it's -

"Does it hurt?" Rapunzel is smiling, watchful _and_ mischievous, her palms stroking warmly over his chest.

"You're ruining me," Eugene grits out, because she _is_, and Rapunzel - damn her - only giggles. _Giggles_, like this is anything but perverse in the extreme, anything but terrifying, anything but godfuck_good_ -

"Well, you ruined _me_ plenty on our wedding night, so I'd say you deserve a little ruining, too."

"You - " _are a demon_, he doesn't say, because suddenly, that hair is on his _mouth_, a heavy, golden weight that silences him more surely than any other gag ever has, including the official leather bits used by this kingdom's _stellar_ law-keeping force.

"Quiet, now, Eugene. It wouldn't do to have the servants hear you moaning like a, what was the word you used to describe that visiting duchess who seemed to remember you _so_ well? Oh, yes. _Harlot_. Wouldn't do to have you moaning like a harlot, would it?"

Eugene _glares_ -

"Or screaming, even?"

All right, first of all, that duchess had been one of his _least_ favorite benefactors when he'd been a, uh, young man in need of, er, benefaction. She hadn't been one of the feather-wielding lunatics, but still. It's been _years_ since then. Years since Flynn Rider got his name as a - a _rider_. He hasn't had to fund himself in that manner for the better part of a decade, and certainly not since having a ruddy _kingdom_ at his disposal - not that that was why he married Rapunzel, of course - he'd resisted _mightily_ -

"Look at me, Eugene."

But with Rapunzel, resistance is, of course, futile.

He looks at her. At her lovely face, her lush, beloved mouth, whose heat and softness he is more intimate with than he ever has been with his own _soul_, and at her eyes, her bright-lit eyes, that manage to be tender despite their devilishness.

Or perhaps _because_ of their devilishness.

Rapunzel is incomprehensible.

_I love you_, he thinks, and Rapunzel's lips curve, like she can _hear_ him.

Who knows? Maybe she can.

Just as she can wind her hair around his throat, and his torso, and his legs, stray tendrils tickling his thighs, making him shake and shudder and gasp. He feels not like a body but one continuous, burning _surface_, burnished like a mirror and just as defenseless, just as naked, caressed from the soles of his feet to the arch of his throat by the strangest, shifting _texture_ he's ever felt. It's maddening, and perfect, and _wrong_, and the thing in him that still panics at being caught - at being imprisoned - struggles and begs and _pleads_, but he can't voice those pleas, can't _sob_ them -

"Now, now. Be patient, husband." And that very texture wraps around his _sex_, an excruciatingly slow _smother_ of a sensation that makes his hips twitch upward and his lips part helplessly under the world's most comfortable, most glorious, most surreal gag.

Rapunzel was right - he's moaning, in his _throat_ - and the trapped buzz of that sound fills his ears and, it seems, his _heart_, like the song of a hummingbird, or of some strange, hovering creature that can only flit its wings feebly and that can never, _ever_taste - never drink, never _slake_ -

"You want to have me, don't you?" Rapunzel's hands aren't touching him anymore, and it takes him a blind, fevered moment to focus beyond the haze in his head and realize that it's because she's _touching herself_, that she's -

She's kneeling astride him and touching herself, one hand between her thighs, gleaming wetly, and the other wandering her skin, her silken, flawless skin, small breasts casting crescent-moon shadows in the firelight, her hair gathered and moving around her like a cloud of glowing _thunder_, and she's -

She looks like a _goddess_, she looks -

"But you can't," she whispers, and there's such a sweet pain in her voice, in the strain of her breath, in her _eyes_ - as though his agony is her agony, that it hurts her to hurt him so, heals her to heal him, pleasures her to pleasure _him_, and - "Oh, my love, you can't…"

He can't. He _can't_, but he can't stop moving, either, trapped between the bindings at his ankles and the weight across his throat and mouth - he can't _stop_, his own stifled whimpers resounding within his skull, his wrists twisting uselessly, sweat slicking him under all that hot, moving _pressure_, dampening him _and_ her hair, darkening it, darkening his vision, darkening the _world_.

And it isn't entrapment, at all, it's _safety_, because Rapunzel is _keeping_ him, having him, _owning_ him -

"Eugene," he hears through the roar of it, through the tightening pull and lift of it, the pulse and _spark_ of it, and, "oh," she breathes, _oh_, and maybe she's coming, maybe she's coming, _too_ -

He arches -

"I love you," she says, and Eugene closes his eyes and _groans_, because, yes, yes, she does.

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><p><strong>fin.<strong>  
>Please review!<p> 


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